


sweet dreams (are made of this)

by maesilju



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - dream thievery, F/F, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maesilju/pseuds/maesilju
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Futakuchi's king of a dream speakeasy operating out of Shinsekai - but Misaki calls the shots, and Oikawa's got a case to crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet dreams (are made of this)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nautilics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilics/gifts).



> i. Title credit goes to the Eurythmics, for composing [such a deliciously catchy earworm of a song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qeMFqkcPYcg/), which I may or may not have had on repeat while writing this. 
> 
> ii. Recreational drug use features rather heavily in this fic [albeit with dreams rather than actual drugs, since this is a magical realism AU]. If that's something that you're uncomfortable reading, this fic might not be for you.

Dreams are tricky things; gossamer fragile and short-lived, but worth their weight in gold - not the tacky gilt on the bartop that Terushima claims is genuine (it's not), but the real thing, heavy as a sinner's heart, and - unlike the sinner - all too rare. No one dreams anymore; at least,  not naturally.

 

Nowadays, dreams are found at the bottom of _sake_ glasses, in chems, or - for the handful of elite that can afford it - in carefully crafted spellwork and charms. For a small fortune, anyone can have anything their heart desires for a few hours, or if they so choose (and have enough money) - days on end. There are entire establishments dedicated to that sort of thing - dream houses for the wealthy, and for everyone else, especially the desperate, poor or very sick, there are people like Futakuchi.

 

It’s illegal, in practically every sense of the word. Only dream houses are licensed, like Kyoto's _Meiseikimu_ , est. 1903 to serve the whims of the emperor and his cronies; and while there are harsh penalties for black-market dream trafficking, Futakuchi's never really given a damn. Not when demand far outstrips supply, and opportunities abound for profit. 

 

Like tonight, for instance. His mark is a disgraced politician, a balding man in his late sixties, and a known dream addict - to the extent that he'd been neglecting his official duties and forced to resign, or so the rumors go. Futakuchi's inclined to believe them. For the past week, the man's done nothing but consume dreams. It's mostly mid-tier stuff, cut liberally with chems as a substitute for actual spells, judging by how his mark sleeps in fits and starts, but tonight is different.

 

Earlier, a dream had arrived in a lacquer box, bearing some sort of seal - a snake, its body curved in a sinuous circle, devouring its own tail. It's not anything that Futakuchi recognises - each of the dream houses has its own insignia, but this isn't one of them. Nevertheless, the insignia suggests it's a generous gift - most legal dreams cost an arm and a leg, and slightly more besides. It's a change in routine, which is odd, considering that his mark had previously fallen out of favor with the [Kokkai](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Diet). 

 

Futakuchi has to wonder at that. A favor returned for services rendered in the past, or a bribe in exchange for potentially compromising information? He squints through his binoculars, peering into the dimly lit rooms, and then shrugs, pushing the thought aside. It's not important; what matters is that tonight he'll have made away with a good prize, better than the mid-rate dreams he was expecting. Tsukishima will be pleased - he's been complaining that all Futakuchi's given him to work with so far have been half-rate dreams, "and it's impossible, you realize, to turn this crap into anything remotely decent".

 

The streets around his mark's house are quiet, save for the occasional rumble of passing car. Futakuchi waits for the lights wink out, and then a little more, until he's reasonably sure that his mark is, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world. He curls his fingers around the [_omamori_ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Omamori)in his pocket, tracing the embroidered brocade with the pad of his thumb. Tamed magic purrs in response to his touch; it's warm and reassuring, in the way that all _kaiun_ charms are, and it works to calm his nerves. Futakuchi's not particularly superstitious, but this has become a ritual of sorts for him. _Everyone needs a bit of luck now and then,_ Moniwa had said when he'd gifted the _omamori_ to him as a parting token. In hindsight, Moniwa probably hadn't had dream-thieving in mind when he'd said that, but what his friend doesn't know won't hurt him.

 

It takes Futakuchi a moment's work to open the wards protecting the gate. They dissolve into smoke, and he allows himself a brief smile - he's _good_ at this. Not so much with dream alchemy - that's more Tsukishima's specialty, but dream theft is a skill that Futakuchi's got down pat. From there, it's easy enough to slip in by the back door, and he climbs the stairs soundlessly, padding into the bedroom light-footed as a cat.

 

Futakuchi's mark barely stirs. He's snoring, mouth hanging slightly open, face gone slack in sleep. Emptied of its contents, the lacquer box sits open on the nightstand. Futakuchi tugs the length of string looped around his wrist free, winding it around and across his fingers as he pulls and twists it into a complex web that will catch the dream fast. _Ayatori_ might be a child's game, but it's also a friend to those in Futakuchi's line of work; nothing snares dreams quite like a cat's cradle can. He holds his finished work just above his mark's face, and hums. The notes are lilting and soft, intending to charm and coax the dream out into the open.

 

This particular dream, however, is slow to come, despite being half-spent. It fights him every step of the way, and by the time it settles into the cat's cradle, sweat is beading on Futakuchi's forehead. His ands shake with the effort of containing the dream. It's thick and viscous, like resin, and the cat's cradle strains under its weight. This dream is an odd one - most don't give Futakuchi this much trouble with extraction. Images shift and flicker in its depths. Futakuchi catches a glimpse of a dark blue fan, trimmed with gold; then a snow-blanketed mountain, before a sea of crimson swallows the white landscape in a glorious blaze of falling maple leaves. He doesn't look too long, though; that'd be a rookie's mistake, and Futakuchi knows better than to be caught out like that.

 

His mark snorts in his sleep, sighs, and turns over onto his side. Futakuchi frowns. He's taken too long extracting this particular dream. _It’s time to go_. While dreams are administered with a potent dose of narcotics, his mark waking is a risk Futakuchi's not willing to take. He coils the cat's cradle in on itself, and bottles its contents in a jar, which he tucks into his jacket. Futakuchi leaves the house quickly, taking care to reseal the wards behind him so they appear undisturbed.

 

The sky's growing brighter by the time Futakuchi makes it back to [Shinsekai](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shinsekai), bounty in hand. [Tsūtenkaku](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ts%C5%ABtenkaku) looms above the rest of the district, always a familiar, welcoming sight after a job well done, but he turns away from it. Home - the old [Festivalgate ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Festivalgate)theme park - lies in the other direction.

 

Shinsekai is still asleep, but it'll begin to stir as the first trains rumble into Shin-Imamiya Station. Futakuchi steps over a few snoring drunks, wrinkling his nose at the smell. The streets get more run-down as he draws nearer to Festivalgate. No one really comes by anymore, save for the homeless, or the occasional lost tourist. Broken windows and empty door frames gape at him as he passes by the buildings, each one bordering on collapse. The city council's been going on about demolishing this quarter of Shinsekai for years, but to Futakuchi, it's got a certain kind of charm. That is, as long as you didn't mind the smell, or the more colorful sort of character you got around here.

 

Futakuchi vaults over the fence cutting Festivalgate off from the rest of Shinsekai, ignoring the DANGER: KEEP-OUT signs. He weaves his way under the arches and up the escalators into Festivalgate, stoping just in front of a statue of Billiken. The [god of things-as-they-ought-to-be](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billiken) beams serenely at him, and Futakuchi reaches out to rub his feet.

 

Gears whir and grind. The statue of Billiken moves to the side, exposing a narrow corridor leading down into inky blackness. Futakuchi steps in, and a moment later, Billiken returns to his original position, sealing off the entrance. Then the fairy lights flicker on, painting the path various hues of pink, teal and blue. Futakuchi smiles; he remembers nicking them with Makki from a shop display in Dōtonbori, and walks onwards.

 

Almost everything they own is stolen (or in Konoha's parlance, _borrowed_ ). Exhibit A: Festivalgate, Billiken, the raw materials for the dreams they trade, and the dream speakeasy's name.

 

This last one swims out of the gloom abruptly. The entrance to the speakeasy is hidden by a repurposed bit of green aluminium sheeting, with OBSCURA spray-painted across it in wobbly silver capitals.

 

They'd argued over it, a lot. It had gone something like this:

 

Any business venture needs a name, no matter how illicit; it's the principle of the thing. So they'd drawn lots to determine what the speakeasy would be called. Despite Makki's blatant attempts at cheating, Konoha had won, by some bizarre twist of luck.

 

"We're calling it Obscura," he'd said, immediately, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Kenji had been unable to shake off the feeling that somehow, Konoha had _planned_ this.

 

Tsukishima's only contribution was to snort derisively, his say of saying _I want no part of this_.

 

Makki snickered. "What's this, some crappy Shibuya club wannabe?"The name clearly offended his sensibilities, not that Konoha seemed to care.

 

"Obscura," Konoha repeated, lifting his chin stubbornly.

 

Makki swivelled towards Futakuchi, "And what does our esteemed leader think?"

 

He shrugged. "You heard him. We agreed; winner gets to name this joint." Privately, Futakuchi would have settled for something that (a) involved a lot less English and (b) wasn't pretentiously hispter, but at least _he_ wasn't the one who was going to have to spell it.

 

"Fine." Makki scowled, throwing up his hands. " _fine_. If I'd had my way, I'd have named this place something infinitely cooler. Just saying."

 

"There's nothing wrong with the name, Obscura Laboratory's my favorite coffee roaster!" Konoha snapped back.

 

"Oh god, did you hear that, Tsukki? That just makes it so much _worse_ -"

 

"Please don't call me Tsukki ever again - "

 

"ENOUGH."

 

The name stuck, for better or worse, and despite Makki's griping about how that practically made them all fucking hipsters now, Obscura had become a regular fixture in Osaka's murky underworld. You wanted the good stuff, without the hassle of applying through government-regulated channels? Obscura in Shinsekai was the place for you, no questions asked.

 

Futakuchi raps on the door, and the intercom crackles to life.

 

"Can't you read the sign? We're closed," says a muffled voice, somewhat petulantly - Konoha, from the sound of it.

 

Futakuchi rolls his eyes and kicks the door for good measure. It rattles, hinges groaning in protest. "It's _me_ , dumbass."

 

"How do I know you're not with the vice squad?"

 

Futakuchi's patience - worn thin by a cold night spent out on the streets - is running out. _"Konoha_."

 

"Got it, boss."

 

The door swings open, and he steps through into Obscura.

 

* * *

 

 

Makki's in the kitchen, coffee machine wheezing and spitting besides him as he idly flips through a well-thumbed copy of [Betsuma](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bessatsu_Margaret). Futakuchi squeezes in alongside the counter, pushing his hood back. It's not much warmer here than it is outside - the kerosene heater they've installed is moribund at the best of times.

 

"Morning."

 

Makki hands him a chipped mug of hot coffee. Futakuchi cups his hands around the mug, inhaling deeply. It's strong, creamy and sweet - just the way he likes it. Makki might be shit at actual cooking, but he makes a decent brew, whereas Futakuchi can barely make the coffee machine work on the best of days.

 

"Reading that _shōjo_ sap again?"

 

Makki scoffs. "Like you don't steal a copy of my manga and sneak a read now and then."

 

Futakuchi takes a long sip of his coffee, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand."Guilty as charged," he admits, cheerfully unrepentant, "but still. You spend actual money on this. I don't."

 

Makki takes a swipe at him for that. Futakuchi dodges it and ducks out of the kitchen, still snickering to himself.

 

The lab, or as Makki calls it, _the room where it happens_ , (much to Tsukishima's everlasting disdain), is dim and warm, almost stiflingly so. The low hiss of Bunsen burners is punctuated by the tumbling notes of Vivaldi, or something like it - Futakuchi's not big on classical composers, and Tsukishima has never bothered to elaborate.

 

Jars line the walls, filled with various odds and ends - birds' nests, butterflies, plant cuttings, ticket stubs, bright scraps of brocade, _origami_ , and various liquids that froth gently. Some have things floating in them - Futakuchi avoids looking at _those_ too closely. Magic takes many forms, and Osaka brims with it, sometimes in the most unlikely places. Makki's the best at discerning the magical from the mundane, so he's responsible for salvage.

 

At the other end of the workshop sits a large, glass-fronted refrigerator, the kind ubiquitous to all _konbinis_ \- except instead of orderly rows of milk tea and beers, theirs is cluttered with dreams in various stages of development.

 

Tsukishima doesn't look up from the concoction that's bubbling in front of him. It smells sharp and fresh; promising, like newly cut grass in the summer.

 

"You're late."

 

"Or early, depending which way you look at it," Futakuchi drawls; winding his chemist up is part of the fun. He takes a long swig from his mug, before offering it.

 

"Coffee?"

 

Tsukishima only slants him a sour look in response. By all rights, the safety goggles should make him look ridiculous, but they only add to the severity of his glare. "I hope you've got something to show for it, then."

 

"Oh, I think you'll find that this is a lot more than just _something_."Futakuchi reaches into his jacket and sets the jar down onto the counterop. Still snarled in the cat's cradle, the dream catches the light in the room, and reels it in, taking on a diffuse amber glow of its own.

 

Most dreams are about as self-aware as sea slugs, only reacting to sudden changes in temperature, or the dreamer's subconscious. This one, however.. Futakuchi's tempted to say it's almost _alive_ , somehow, except that would be ridiculous. Dreams aren't sentient; they're bits and pieces of magic and memories, strung together with chems and wishes, Freud be damned. The man had been right - but only up to the point where humanity as a collective had lost the ability to dream.

 

Tsukishima studies the trapped dream for a long moment, mouth drawn tight with concentration. "Where'd you get it from?"

 

Futakuchi knows that isn't the real question. Tsukishima could hardly care if he'd robbed a drunk or a businessman; all that mattered to him was: who had brewed this particular dream?

 

"Don't know. But it looks legit. Prototype from _Sakayume_ , maybe?"

 

"Mm," Tsukishima turns the jar about in his hands, and the dream _shifts_ in response, going abruptly insubstantial, a silvery mist swirling behind the glass. "Doesn't feel like one of theirs. An experiment in technique, maybe."

 

"Well, it's ours now." Futakuchi mentally ups the estimate of the return from next week's brew - they have room to charge more, now, and with the improved quality, he doubts anyone will complain.

 

"I'll cut it with the rest today. Oh, and this week's batch is ready, along with your usual. Tell Konoha to keep them away from moonlight."

 

Futakuchi raises an eyebrow. "Moonlight? Dare I ask?"

 

Tsukishima rarely smiles, but there's a definite quirk to the corner of his mouth this time. "Not unless you want to be dealing with nightmares."

 

The fridge door tends to stick, and Futakuchi grunts as he jerks it open. Cold air gusts over onto his face. He leans up on his toes, reaching up to the topmost shelf, and pulls out a tray of finished dreams. Tsukishima's handwriting scrawls across each vial, slanted and elegant. One reads _to forget_ ; another, _an autumn moon_ , and Futakuchi's is labelled _No 2. - drink me_. The liquid inside is a clear deep green, like a shot of Chartreuse, and Futakuchi's mouth waters. It's been a week since he's had his last hit, and his skin itches. _Soon,_ he thinks, and pockets it.

 

* * *

 

 

The vials clink against each other in their tray as Futakuchi pads into the speakeasy's den and hands them off to Konoha. They wind up next to a Venus flytrap, the newest addition to Obscura, and yet another of Konoha's attempts at cultivating a green thumb. Makki and Futakuchi have a pool going on how long it'll last. Futakuchi reckons it'll be a week before the flytrap is shrivelled and brown; Makki's got 5000 yen on three days. The Venus flytrap hisses and snaps at the dreams, before Futakuchi upends his empty mug over the pot, trapping it inside. The mug wobbles, and then goes still.

 

"Careful," Konoha protests, but Futakuchi fixes him with a Look.

 

"Keep this batch away from moonlight."

 

"I swear, his instructions get weirder and weirder. Why?"

 

"Some sort of chemical reaction that turns them into nightmares, apparently."

 

Konoha shakes his head; the motion makes his pale bangs fall over his eyes – it’s long past due for a trim, not that he seems to notice. "I'll be careful."

 

Konoha gets to deal with clients, simply because Futakuchi doesn't have the patience for it. Besides, Konoha's always been the best at talking to people, out of everyone in their motley gang.

 

Futakuchi inclines his head in the direction of the beaded curtain separating Konoha's post from the dreamers in the other room. "Everything all right?"

 

"Quiet as the dead," Konoha replies, cheerfully, and then pauses, considering. "Well, mostly quiet, anyway. I'm just waiting on the last few dreamers, and then I'll kick them out and lock up."

 

Save for the soft burble of a game show rerun on TV, and some snoring (inevitable, considering the narcotics that Tsukishima mixes in with his brews), nothing else stirs in the den.

 

"All right. I'm off." His rounds done, Futakuchi stifles a yawn. His weekly indulgence - the dream Tsukishima's brewed for him -  sits heavy in his pocket, and his mouth waters in anticipation. He can almost taste the shifting complexity of it, and the heady satisfaction of a full meal.

 

"Sleep tight!" Konoha calls after him.

 

* * *

 

 

Someone's shaking him, the words rushed and spilling over each other, too fast for his sleep-fogged mind to catch. "Fuck. Off." Futakuchi snarls into his pillow, not quite awake, but not quite asleep, either, no thanks to the complete _asshole_ who's just wrenched his covers off the bed.

 

He sits up, teeth bared. Dreams always leave him feeling disoriented, and being woken up in the middle of one is practically a guarantee of a bad mood. "This better be good," Futakuchi growls, "or else I'm going to - "

 

“Sorry to wake you,” Konoha gasps, sounding winded, “but Misaki- _dono_ called. You’re needed at Umeda, at once. Her words, not mine.”

 

It takes Futakuchi a moment to parse the words; the dream-flavors are rich and fresh in his mind, and it takes all his concentration not to lose himself in them. He sits up with a sigh. “Did she say why?”

 

Konoha makes a face. “Nah, it didn’t seem like a good idea to ask. Say, this isn’t about the… stuff we owe ‘em, is it?”

 

“Let’s hope it’s not,” Futakuchi says, tone dry as he stumbles out of bed and shrugs on his hoodie. They’re several months owing on their protection money to Johzenji – money that they don’t actually have – and everyone knows how trigger-happy Terushima gets when it comes to destroying _other people’s_ property.

 

Panic follows right on the heels of that thought; his chest tightens, breath catching short in his lungs and leaving him light-headed. If it really came to that –--- then what?

 

The thing is, Moniwa had been so much better at dealing with emergencies than Futakuchi had. Short, mild-mannered and not particularly imposing, Moniwa looked like a total pushover, until push came to shove, and then he abruptly _wasn't_ Nice Guy-san anymore.

 

Warmth tingles at Futakuchi’s fingertips, and the weight on his chest eases up. He blinks. The _omamori_ is tightly grasped in his fist -- he'd reached for it by instinct.

 

Futakuchi takes a deep breath, and then another.Thankfully, Konoha doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s still talking, nerves making him ramble on, “- - or you know, it might just be. Something else. Unrelated. Yeah? Misaki’s always the first to know whenever something’s happened, after all.”

 

“Whatever it is, I’m gonna have a chat with Misaki, sort it out.” Futakuchi’s channeling a confidence he doesn’t feel, but it seems to work – Konoha relaxes, a little, and he nods.

 

“Good luck, boss. You’ll need it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Futakuchi had spent most of the day out cold, by his estimate; dreams tend to do that to him. It's dusk now, the sky darkening to a deep blue that spreads across the city. Lights begin to flicker on, illuminating billboards, rooms and shop fronts, white and yellow and various shades of neon, all blurring into bright streaks as his train rumbles onwards into the heart of the city. The rail system spits him out in Umeda, all glass and steel and gleaming skyscrapers, and as stylishly upscale as Shinsekai is down-at-heel.

 

Misaki doesn't like to be kept waiting, but Futakuchi doesn't like playing the stooge either, so fair's fair. The train ride’s given him a chance to think and he’s decided – if he's doing this, he's doing it on _his_ terms. Not Misaki’s. The trick is to appear utterly unconcerned; turning up immediately makes him desperate, and desperation is weakness. He’s not going to be any more beholden to Misaki than he already is – that would be foolish.

 

So Futakuchi drags his feet. Instead of heading towards the rendezvous, he jostles past a salaryman tapping out a message on his phone, lifts his wallet and sidles into Starbucks.

 

While waiting in line, Futakuchi flips open the wallet, going through its contents idly, before he catches sight of the ID, and freezes. _Shit_. 

 

The salaryman had _looked_ like one, but he wasn’t. If the wallet Futakuchi’s holding is any indication, he’s just targeted a policeman, and a [keibu-ho](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Police_Agency_\(Japan\))at that. Oikawa Tooru might be all smiles in his ID, but Futakuchi’s got absolutely no illusions; if he’s caught, it’ll be a vastly different story. Futakuchi studies the photo – he’s young for an inspector, even as an assistant.

 

He glances around furtively, but there’s no sign of the policeman anywhere – at least, not that Futakuchi can tell. He’s safe – for the moment, but he’s rattled enough that when he gets to the front of the line he has no real idea what he’s ordering.

 

In the end, he walks away with a frappucino, a bagel and an overpriced cup of fruit. The drink is some monstrosity cobbled together from syrup, espresso, blended ice and whipped cream. Futakuchi has no clue what he's _actually_ ordered. Something he's going to regret, probably, considering the amount of sugar that's gone into making it.

 

Futakuchi chucks the wallet into a nearby bin and saunters over to the agreed meeting spot, just next to Dean & Deluca’s. He leans against the wall and opens the cup of fruit, studiously keeping his head down.

 

"You know, most people generally don't keep Misaki- _dono_ waiting."

 

The patch of wall to his left had been unoccupied a few seconds ago. Now, a dark-eyed woman with a pixie cut stands next to his elbow.

 

"Ah, Yui, how nice to see you again," Futakuchi dimples at her, and she smiles back, despite the disapproving tone she'd taken earlier.

 

"Have some fruit?" Futakuchi extends the cup as an olive branch of sorts.

 

"Don't mind if I do," she hums, daintily spearing a cantaloupe slice.

 

Misaki can't be _that_ angry, if she's sent Michimiya. If it had been Terushima, well, it would've been the _other_ kind of visit, the sort that eventually involves a missing persons report being filed, and a body washing up on the shore days later.

 

"This doesn't mean you're off the hook, though." Yui says, reproachful. "Misaki said you would be late. And you _are._ "

 

"Train delays, you know how they are," Futakuchi lies, "and anyway, the important thing is that _I'm_ here, aren't I?"

 

"She said you'd say that, too."

 

"Did she?" That was always the trouble with clairvoyants; it was twice as hard to pull the wool over their eyes, because they almost always saw it coming before you did.

 

Yui shoots him an exasperated look that says _stop kidding around_ , before she takes hold of his wrist. "Try not to spill anything,” she warns, before the ground drops out from under their feet.

 

* * *

 

 

To his credit, Futakuchi doesn't spill his drink, but it's a close thing. When he opens his eyes, they're gently swaying in a glass cabin, high above the ground. Osaka glitters beneath them, and if he squints, Futakuchi can make out Tsūtenkaku in the distance, and[ Osaka- _jō_ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osaka_Castle)somewhere further out, pale green and gold in the night sky. The sight makes him slightly queasy. It figures that they'd end up here, in a viewing cabin on the [HEP-5 Ferris wheel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HEP_Five); Misaki favors secrecy, and Futakuchi, for his part, has never liked heights.

 

Behind him, someone coughs, pointedly. _Misaki_. He turns, and there she is, Kiyoko seated at her left, head bent over a brightly colored stack of cards.

 

"Thank you, Yui," Misaki nods at her lieutenant. Then her gaze settles on Futakuchi, and her brows draw together in disapproval. With a bow, Yui vanishes, her job done.

 

"Misaki- _dono_ , Kiyoko- _san_ ," Futakuchi bows, "a pleasure as always."

 

"I'm sure," Misaki says, and the sarcasm doesn't escape Futakuchi's notice. Kiyoko tucks some flyaway strands of hair behind her ear, her expression giving nothing away.

 

Futakuchi settles into the seat across from them, taking a long, noisy slurp of his frapuccino. It tastes like crap, but he swallows, pretending to savor it, if only to annoy Misaki. _Tit for tat._ Baiting Misaki is childish and potentially dangerous, but Futakuchi persists. Old habits die hard.

 

Misaki narrows her eyes at him. "Tell me, how are your politics?"

 

"I don't bother," Futakuchi tilts his head to the side, studying her in the dim light. Misaki's angling for something, definitely, but what, he isn't sure of yet.

 

"Perhaps you should. There's been a... incident. Yamada Toshiro - you might know him better as Osaka-shi's previous _Kokkai_ rep - was found dead earlier today. Odd turn of events, don't you think? Barely a month ago, he'd resigned... and now, he's dead."

 

"And why are you telling me this? This seems more like a case for the police. If they're not on it already." The name doesn't ring a bell. It's not an associate, or a client, and Futakuchi doesn't see why he should care.

 

"Funny you should say that." Misaki's got a smile like a knife, or more accurately, a smile that she wields like a knife, and she turns it on him now. "I know for a fact that his home was targeted by dream thieves shortly before he died."

 

  _Oh, hell_. Futakuchi's starting to get the picture, and it's not a pretty one. If this is a coincidence, it's a shitty one that's struck too close to home for comfort.

 

"Is that so?" He feigns nonchalance, cupping his fingers around his drink so they don't tremble and give him away. "I'm sorry to hear that. But it's hardly my concern."

 

Misaki's expression doesn't even flicker. Futakuchi has the unsettling sense that she's parsing his words and looking for the lie. 

 

"A clean job. The theft, I mean, not his murder. The wards weren't even disturbed. No regular thief could have done that - unless they were a _baku_."

 

Dread trickles cold down his spine and into the pit of his stomach to settle like an icy block of lead. She _knows._ Misaki had probably seen him breaking into the old man’s place; she had eyes and ears everywhere, and little escaped her sight – both in the literal and metaphorical sense. “The _baku_ are mostly dead, or gone elsewhere,” Futakuchi counters.

 

"Oh, come on. You know better than that, dream-eater."

 

Silence drags on in the wake of Misaki's salvo.

 

Futakuchi doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. He takes a slow, deliberate bite of his bagel instead, crunching the poppy seeds between his teeth. Thinking, and buying time. "You know, that's a dangerous term to bandy about."

 

"For you, perhaps, but not for me."

 

"What do you _want_ , Misaki- _dono_?" Futakuchi's tired of circling around the topic. Mostly, he just wants to be out of here. The movement of the Ferris wheel unnerves him, and the cabin feels oddly claustrophobic.

 

"The truth. And an end to all this." Misaki leans forward. "I know you stole that dream. But that's not all. There have been other dream-related deaths before, in Tokyo - all under similar circumstances, all people of influence: two journalists and a politician, and now another one, dead in _my_ city. I see the future, _all the time_ , and right now all the possibilities point to mischief - and more of it - if these people are not stopped. Someone's out there, pulling strings behind the scenes. I can't see them, but I _know_ they're there. Find them, and end this."

 

"You put too much faith in my abilities," Futakuchi demurs, "I'm afraid I'm just one very good thief."

 

"And a _baku_ ," Misaki adds, sharply. "But don't worry, you'll have help."

 

"Oh, really?"

 

"Tokyo Metropolitan's finest, I hear."

 

"You know what that means for my kind," Futakuchi hisses, "We had a _deal_ \- no outside interference! Two bloody centuries, and yet they still persist in blaming _us_ for stealing humanity's dreams. As if we'd be that _stupid_ \- "

 

"I let you into my city, _baku_ , because you're useful. And I can just as easily decide that you're no longer welcome." Misaki lets the threat hang in the air before continuing, "The deal stands. I keep your secrets, and you help me. The inspector won’t find out about you – unless you tell him.”

 

"How do I know he won't sell me out?"

 

This time, it's Kiyoko who answers. She shuffles through the deck of [_hanafuda_ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanafuda)cards in her hands, settles on one, and holds it up. It's a swallow, bright blue and yellow against a black background, with her handwriting printed neatly on its wing. "As long as this stays with me, your secret is safe."

 

It was quite possibly the most reckless thing he'd done - pledge his loyalty to Johzenji's _kaicho_ , in return for her lieutenant safeguarding his secrets. Futakuchi has to wonder, sometimes, if he'd been too hasty. _Probably_.

 

"Okay," Futakuchi snaps, "I do this for you, but you'll write off all six months of debt."

 

"Two."

 

"Four, or nothing."

 

"Now, look here -” Misaki begins, but Kiyoko nods.

 

Misaki sighs. "You're not in any position to make demands. But very well. Four months off, and if I were you, I'd start working on the case, _right away_."

 

"That's assuming I can find this inspector, whoever he is."

 

“Oh, that’s not a problem. Actually, you’ve met him already,” Misaki smiles, consulting her watch, “and he should be arriving... just about now.”

 

* * *

 

 

Oikawa Tooru turns out to be a complete _dick_. Not that Futakuchi had been expecting otherwise. Even so, he hadn’t appreciated being arrested. So he’d lifted the inspector’s wallet – big deal. It was a _mistake_ \- it could’ve happened to _anyone_. It wasn’t like he’d deliberately targeted the man, and he _definitely_ didn’t deserve the indignity of being collared and handcuffed like some common criminal. (All right, so Futakuchi _was_ a thief, but he prided himself on being the kind that never got caught.)

 

Misaki had stepped in, made the necessary introductions and enforced a temporary truce, but only after taking her time about it. Not that it mattered – truce or no, they’re still at each others’ throats.

 

“I still don’t see why I have to buy you a new wallet,” Futakuchi snaps, rubbing his wrists. “S’not as if there’s anything _wrong_ with it – it just smells a bit like bananas. I could’ve done much worse, all right?”

 

“ _Rotten_ bananas,” Oikawa glares back, waving the offending thing in his face. “Also, _you_ stole it in the first place. Some consultant you are – more like a thief if you ask _me_. If Misaki- _san_ wasn’t so convinced you’re necessary for this case, you’d be in the lock-up by now.”

 

“Like I’d _let_ you.” Futakuchi sneers, his hackles rising. “I’d reckon it’d be really interesting if the precinct captain found out you and the _yakuza_ are pretty cozy, eh? What’d that be, breach of conduct? Oh, I’d _love_ to see that going down.”

 

He hates the police. He's never trusted them, not after what they'd done to Moniwa. Now, being forced to work with them brings back a morass of bad memories, of going hungry and being hunted -  and later, losing the only real friend he'd ever had. Futakuchi wishes he’d never gone along with Misaki’s demands – but he would have ended up in this mess anyway – Misaki always got what she wanted, eventually.

 

Oikawa exhales sharply, the sound almost a hiss. _Good_. Futakuchi’s glad to see he’s struck a nerve. Then he shrugs, and composes himself. “It’s my word against yours, and you and I both know that things won’t end well _that_ way.” He smiles, and this time, it’s edged with ice. “Now, shall we get down to business?”

 

For an answer, Futakuchi matches him with a _fuck you_ smirk of his own, baring his teeth scornfully, the same way he’s seen Terushima do before just before all hell breaks loose. “Try me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Yui knocks back the last of her tea. It’s _good_ stuff – the kind that gives you a pleasant glow after a cup. Kiyoko would never settle for less, otherwise -- poorly-brewed tea, Yui has learned, makes for grim moods all round. Yui glances at the tea leaves, as has become habit. They’ve clumped along the side of the cup, a lumpy mess that tells her nothing. Sometimes she has to wonder what it would be like, to read omens in _everything_ – in the glint of sunlight off glass, a hand of cards, or the ragged flight of birds, sailing across the sky; and for a moment, she has to envy Misaki and Kiyoko - teleportation just seems so _bland_ in comparison.

 

"Do you think it was a good idea?" It's not that Yui doubts Misaki's judgement; on the contrary. Still, it's a gamble, and it makes for the unlikeliest of partnerships: one a _baku_ -turned-thief, and the other, an up-and-coming inspector - if they don't turn on each other first, that is.

 

"Hard to tell," Misaki pops her head out from under a sleek Audi. There's a smudge of grease streaked across her cheek. Johzenji operares out of a car repair shop, inherited by Misaki from her grandfather. Unlikely as it is, this is downtime for Misaki at her other, more ordinary job-by-choice - tinkering with and setting clients' cars right, in between cups of tea accompanied by Yachi's madeleines. Misaki says it helps her _not_ to think, sometimes; and Yui's inclined to agree - fixing oil leaks or replacing worn-out air conditioner coils is easier than trying to deal with an entire city's problems.

 

Misaki pushes the creeper back, sliding further out from under the car, reaching out with a gloved hand to grab a torch from the toolbox. "That's the trouble with predictions - they're really only good for some things, and even then...."

 

"It's a lot like wandering around blindfolded in a labyrinth," Kiyoko finishes, padding back in, a stack of invoices in her hands.

 

"Except there's no thread to lead the way," Misaki says, dryly.

 

The way they finish each other's sentences is uncanny - Yui has a hunch they're playing games with each other again, casting their thoughts into the near future and anticpating the other's moves - kind of like chess, but without the board and pieces.

 

"Putting the two of them together seems like a gamble," Yui hedges. She's with Misaki - always has been, always will be - but she can't quite see how they're going to win this one.

 

"It is. Then again, everything's a gamble. But I like to think this is the one that'll sweep the house."

 

"Or not," Kiyoko counters, a beat later.

 

Their eyes meet. A beat, and then another; the moment drags on. Yui shifts uneasily in her seat - the conversation's still going, all right, only without words, and it's an odd thing to witness. They're not squaring off, not really; but the tension in the air is unmistakeable. There's a lot Misaki hasn't been saying, lately, and Yui knows it. They all do.

 

Misaki's the first to look away.

 

"You risk a great deal." Kiyoko's voice is quiet, but there's no mistaking the stee in her tone. 

 

"I must," Misaki insists, low and fierce. "I can't lose. Not now." She vanishes back under the car, the creeper squeaking in agitation at her sudden movement. 

 

Kiyoko sighs. The invoices rustle in her hands as she turns to Yui, worry turning the corners of her mouth down.

 

"Keep an eye on the both of them, will you, Yui? And be careful. Please." She leans in to press a kiss to Yui's cheek; Yui gets a whiff of Kiyoko's perfume, light and floral, and her breath catches in her throat. 

 

Being cautious doesn't run in their line of work (especially hers), but for Kiyoko and Misaki, Yui will try. "I will," she promises, squeezing Kiyoko's hand in reassurance - - and Kiyoko's answering smile is the last thing she sees as the garage flickers out of view.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s clear that Yamada’s death wasn’t an accident; the trip to the morgue shows as much. There isn’t much of him that’s readily identifiable – whatever the dream had been made out of, it’d been corrosive enough to eat through flesh and bone alike, consuming Yamada as he slept. Futakuchi feels bile rising up in his throat at the sight. Oikawa turns away from the mess, looking faintly green, and he feels a vindictive pang of satisfaction at seeing the inspector’s discomfort.

 

“We’re lucky we even have this much left to analyze,” the pathologist on duty – Sugawara Koushi, according to the nametag clipped to his lapel – tells them cheerfully, handing over the report, “Blood tests show that he’d only had a half-dosage of the dream; it’s possible that if it’d been the full dose, it’d… ah… probably would’ve been just like those Tokyo murders. Nasty business, that.”

 

“So he was poisoned.” Oikawa flips through the file, frowning in concentration.

 

“You could call it that, yes.” Sugawara nods, “but that’s not all. I’ve looked through the database, and the cases are very similar. We have dreams being delivered and consumed within hours of death, with very little remaining of the victims – except in this instance. Whatever the poison was, it was designed to destroy as much of the evidence as possible, but this time, we got lucky.”

 

“Still not lucky enough to find out exactly _what_ killed them,” Futakuchi smiles bitterly. It was pure chance he’d settled on Yamada as a mark; too bad someone else had, too.

 

He flips the dossier open, and a photo catches his eye. It's a shot of the lacquer box. Up close, he can see that he was wrong - it's not a snake at all. It's a white dragon, its underbelly a gleaming, iridescent shade of blue, tendrils snaking from its snarling mouth. Blood wells from the wounds where its fangs have dug into its own flesh.

  
"What's that thing on the seal? Here." Futakuchi points.

  
"Oh, that? It's an ouroboros, apparently. Odd; most of the dream houses draw from Japanese mythology, not European legend. Either way, it's not in the official registry, but it's the same type of box used to deliver the tainted dreams."

 

"Expensive shit. You'd have to get this custom-made somewhere." Futakuchi squints at the photograph.

 

  
"Yes. Generally, each lacquer box comes with its own unique RFID tag, but this one's is missing. Or... more likely it didn't have one to begin with."

 

  
"Which suggests that this isn't legit. I'm guessing there aren't any prints?" Oikawa interjects, peering over Futakuchi's shoulder to look at the file. Peevishly, Futakuchi angles his body away from Oikawa, hunching stubbornly over the evidence folder.

 

  
"No, unless you count Yamada's. Speaking of which, the blood tests show the standard narcotics for the dream mix. Toxicology indicates a psychoactive drug, too... but we're not sure just what at this point. It's not anything I've ever seen before, and it's definitely not the kind of thing that dream houses market. It's possible that his death could've been a particularly nasty side-effect of the drug, though."

 

  
“So he was poisoned.” There's a brief, wordless not-quite-struggle in which Oikawa attempts to prise the file out of Futakuchi's grip. Futakuchi's winning, up until the point Oikawa's elbow makes firm - and pointed - contact with his ribs. Oikawa emerges triumphant, the file held aloft in his grip. Futakuchi shoots him a filthy look. Sugawara, for his part, doesn't seem the least bit fazed by the petty confrontation taking place in front of him.

 

  
“Something like that,” he nods, “but that’s not all. I’ve looked through the database, and the cases are very similar. We have dreams being delivered and consumed within hours of death, with very little remaining of the victims – except in this instance. Whatever the poison was, it was designed to destroy as much of the evidence as possible."

 

  
“Or it could be something else entirely." Futakuchi reaches out with a casual hand to push the file closed, ignoring Oikawa’s huff of annoyance; the report isn’t going to be of much use, not when they’ve got so little to work with. “Magic. Your standard dream is made up of magic, chems and narcotics. And no chems I know of are capable of eating through flesh without leaving a trace." He wonders uneasily about the filched dream back at Obscura, sitting amongst the rest of the vials and jars -- he hasn't told Tsukishima yet; hasn't had a chance to, not with one thing leading to another. _Had he started distilling the dream, yet? Surely not; Tsukishima had said tomorrow... still, better to be safe than sorry._

 

"It'd have to be expensive and illegal magic, for sure." Sugawara agrees, "but it's hard to see where anyone might get that from - "

 

  
Tuning out the conversation, he reaches for his phone and fires off a quick text to Tsukishima, just one sentence: **dont start on todays batch. expln latr.**

 

  
The mention of his name snaps Futakuchi's attention back to the conversation.

 

" - but there are a few other things we need to check out too," Oikawa's saying, scribbling down something in his spiral notebook.

 

  
"Sorry, what?" Futakuchi tucks his phone away and shoves his hands back into his pockets, leaning over Oikawa's shoulder to peer at what he's writing. The notebook's obsessively neat, the pages color-coded and inked with precise, angular handwriting, with names, dates and locations outlined in marker.

 

  
Futakuchi catches a glimpse of his own name, with an arrow pointing to Misaki's, next to _link???/ potential suspect_ before Oikawa snaps his notebook shut, shooting him a peeved look.

 

  
"I _said_ , " and here a note of irritation creeps into Oikawa's voice, "it's a plausible explanation, but I wouldn't rule out more... conventional means. Like the psychoactive. The black market keeps churning out this crap all the time. '08, and the mess we got with the so-called _kirin_ tears? Bullshit. That was just bad chems."

 

Some idiot had tried to market psychoactives as dreams, albeit with miraculous healing properties. People stupid enough to fall for it had gotten high, and then comatose, and shortly enough, very dead.

 

  
"Yeah, but they just ended up complete vegetables for their troubles. This is different." The dream had felt -- _weird_ , for lack of another word; no chems could have done _that_.

 

Oikawa scoffs. "And how do you know?"

 

  
Futakuchi swallows his irritation. _So, he's one of those_. Despite all evidence to the contrary, magic skeptics continued to persist. They were a motley bunch, ranging from hardcore conservatives - who condemned any and all magic as unnatural - to those who preferred technology over magic. In any case, they generally felt that magic was at best unreliable, and at worst, a threat. Futakuchi's heard all the arguments before, and rolled his eyes at each and every one of them.

 

"I have ... sources."

 

  
"Right." Oikawa snickers, "You can't expect me to believe that without evidence."

 

  
"If you'll excuse me," Sugawara cuts in, as if sensing trouble on the horizon, "I'm sorry, but I need to wrap this up. There's another case I need to consult on, so if you two are done?"

 

  
He's still smiling, but there's a finality about it that they're ultimately unable to argue with, even if they _aren't_ quite done.

 

* * *

 

  
They wind up standing outside the morgue. It's late, and there's a stiff wind gusting about; February in Osaka is about the coldest it can get (admittedly, still mild by Tokyo standards), but it's still too chilly for Futakuchi, and he tugs his hood over his head with an aggrieved noise.

 

  
"So, what was that you were saying? About... ah... your hunch?" Oikawa's smile is mocking and entirely too smug; it's clear that he thinks Futakuchi's talking a load of utter rubbish.

 

  
Later, Futakuchi will blame stress and sleep debt for seriously fucking up his decision-making abilities, but right now, all he wants is to wipe that stupid smirk off Oikawa's face. Preferably with his fist, but that would be childish, and possibly also assualt. So Futakuchi settles for a matching one of his own, tilting his chin up in challenge, "You have no fucking idea, do you?"

 

  
"You talk up a big game, but so far I'm not seeing anything to back it up." Oikawa shrugs; somehow, he managed to make even that look insulting. "So, yes, I'm sceptical, and that's putting it very mildly."

 

  
All right, that was it; the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Futakuchi bristles.

 

  
"Fine. You want evidence? You'll get it, all right."

 

* * *

 

 

Naturally, Oikawa insists on sticking with Futakuchi until he produces said proof, which is how they end up at Obscura. Correction: Futakuchi heads back to Obscura; Oikawa, for his part, is to wait at Shin-Imamiya Station. Like _hell_ Futakuchi's going to divulge the location of the speakeasy - he's not a fool. Oikawa doesn't seem all that displeased about the terms of the arrangement - which should have been the first hint that this was all going to go spectacularly pear-shaped.

 

  
"I'm just saying," Konoha hisses, following close on Futakuchi's heels, "that this isn't a good idea at all, boss. Come on. Law enforcement? Seriously? What the hell are you even thinking? This guy is bad news. Bad for business, since you don't seem to get it -"

 

  
"Look, it's not as if I let him in." Futakuchi snaps. "It's just one dream, all right? One we can afford to lose; Misaki's agreed to overlook some of what we owe her. "

 

  
"Tsukishima's going to have a field day." Anxiety draws Konoha's mouth into a grim line. "You know that."

 

  
"He'll get over it. And can I just remind you that I _am_ the boss here, no matter what Tsukishima says - " Here, Futakuchi wheels around sharply, because Shin-Imamiya's deserted. Not completely, of course - there was the odd vagrant - but more worryingly, the station's devoid of one junior inspector Oikawa Tooru. And that could only mean one thing: _trouble_.

 

  
"Oh, shit." He'd checked to make sure Oikawa hadn't been tailing him (better to safe than sorry), but now Futakuchi's not so sure.

 

  
"You were saying something? About being the boss?" Konoha scratches his head, and Futakuchi glares. "Shut up. No, scratch that - come on. We've got to find him, before - "

 

  
"Before what? You dispose of the evidence?"

 

  
The voice isn't one he recognizes. Futakuchi turns, a _who, me?_ spell ready at his fingertips. 

 

  
The intruder is burly, stout and balding. Futakuchi re-assesses the situation 

 

  
"You're ... not Oikawa."

 

"Very astute. Also - you're under arrest for theft and dream trafficking - "

 

Futakuchi doesn't stick around to hear him out. He's flat-out sprinting before Burly's done -- but it's a short, ill-fated lunge for freedom that ends all too abruptly when a distressingly large, spiky-maned police [ _komainu_   ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Komainu)tackles him to the floor and proceeds to slobber all over him. For a creature that had until recently been made of stone, it's certainly alive enough. 

 

 

"Well,  _fuck_."

 

* * *

 

 

They think he's the murderer. Which is dead wrong, pun unintended. Futakuchi might've been at the crime scene, but to be fair, he was there after the damage had been done, so it's not his fault, whatever Oikawa and company seem to want to believe. Not that Futakuchi's telling them anything, anyway.

 

  
Quite frankly, being arrested is rather insulting -- Futakuchi hasn't seen the inside of a holding cell ever since he'd learned to pick pockets without getting caught. They've read him his rights and stuck him in a holding cell to cool his heels ever since. Meanwhile, Obscura's been ransacked, and the rest of his people, detained. Futakuchi can't afford a lawyer, so he won't have one; none of them will. That's the law, and it sucks. Putting his trust in Misaki is not his best option, but it's the only viable one he's got at the moment. Misaki is perfectly capable of moving mountains - but only if she _wants_ to.

 

  
"Stop taking your damn time about it," Futakuchi snaps, eyeing the two-way mirror savagely, on the off-chance that Misaki's scrying him right now. She's probably laughing, the witch (in both senses of the word, of course.)

 

  
The door squeaks open. For a moment, Futakuchi's heart skips a beat, and then when he sees who it is, his shoulders slump. He'd allowed himself to hope that it might be Misaki, or Yui, swooping in to the rescue, but it's not. It's the guy from the train station. _Burly_.

 

  
Futakuchi flicks his eyes away, uninterested. He's been through this exact same song and dance before, only with Oikawa; he expects this will be no different.

 

  
"Sorry." Burly says, not sounding sorry at all. "Had to have a cup of coffee, y'know?" He places a steaming mug of joe on the table top and slides into the seat across from Futakuchi. It smells absolutely fucking heavenly, and Futakuchi can't help it -- he sneaks a glance, and his mouth waters. They've put him in the lock-up for several hours now, it feels like, and he's hungry and tired and thirsty.

 

Burly's eyes gleam, amused. "Sure you don't want some?"

 

  
It's a trap. It always is, with cops. _Can't trust 'em, not one bit._ Futakuchi swallows his saliva and leans back in his chair, arms crossed, saying nothing.

 

  
"No? More for me, then." Burly takes a noisy slurp, and his eyes flutter briefly closed. Futakuchi contemplates knocking him out, and making a run for it, but it's a fool's errand; the lock-up, small as it is, is layered with multiple wards. Even if he broke them, he wouldn't be able to shake off the  _komainu_ , and there's no way Futakuchi'd be able to rescue the rest, as well.

 

  
"Look," Burly sighs, "The silent treatment's getting old, and it's not going to do you any favors. This case is open-and-shut. Oikawa found the evidence stashed in your little hideaway - what was it called again? Obscura?"

 

  
He rifles through the case file, and slides a photograph onto the table. It's of the den, but the thing that really grabs Futakuchi's attention is the stack of lacquer boxes piled up on the floor, each one with the ouroboros seal stamped on it.

 

  
That's new, along with the other photos that Burly spreads out on the table top. Records of the previous victims, next to vials of chems - all of them were new to him, and they definitely _shouldn't_ have been there. There was no way they could have ended up at Obscura - unless someone had planted them there.

 

  
"I'm not the one you're looking for," Futakuchi growls; his hand has balled into a fist, nails digging angry red crescents into the flesh of his palm.

 

  
"Want to know something really interesting?" The corner of Burly's mouth twitches up in a half-smirk.

 

  
Futakuchi doesn't. Burly's continues, regardless. "Your prints are a dead ringer for the marks on them. So yeah, good try, but this is it, I'm afraid."

 

  
"Don't you think," Futakuchi grits, between clenched teeth, "it's a little _too_ convenient? The same night some big shot from Tokyo lands in Osaka, he cracks the case? The evidence falls into his lap, just like that." He snaps his fingers to punctuate his point, and the sound cracks the oppressive quiet.

 

  
"And what about you?" Burly's quick to turn the question back on him. "Assualting an officer of the law and fleeing from arrest? You're acting an awful lot like someone with a lot to hide."

 

  
He waits, but Futakuchi just stares back at him, blank-eyed. Futakuchi's stone-faced, a calm that he almost certainly does not feel; his pulse has jumped into triple-time, and his thoughts are racing, a tangled mess in his head. Someone's played him; that's certain, but who? _Misaki? Unlikely - his allegiance to her is secure. Why shoot herself in the foot? Oikawa? Possible, but for why? Was he in league with the murderer? Konoha? Makki? Tsukishima? No; his people's loyalty was secure - he'd won them over a long time ago._

 

"Well?" Burly prompts.

 

  
Futakuchi raises his hand, and flips him the finger in response.

 

  
"And here I was hoping for some civilized conversation." Burly sighs, and scoops up the evidence photos. "Fine. I hope you enjoy your stay here, because if the evidence is anything to go by, you'll be put away for a good long while."

 

* * *

 

Some hours later, the door creaks open again. This time, it's Yui.

 

  
Futakuchi blinks blearily at her. He's been attempting, if shakily, to crack the warding spells open for what feels like ages now. His eyes burn, and his fingers are clumsy with fatigue. Not that his efforts make a whit of difference - the wards are heavy-duty stuff, and Futakuchi's running low on juice.

 

  
"Took your damn time," he rasps, stumbling to his feet.

 

  
If Yui's here this means he's cleared, he can go -- which also means it's time to hightail it the fuck out of here. He's had enough. Sod Misaki's plans; they're not worth him getting screwed over by some nameless, shadowy individual hellbent on murder or revenge.

 

  
Futakuchi makes for the exit, but Yui grabs his arm, and just like that, they're gone, the drab walls of the holding cell fading out, to be replaced by striped shutters and the heavy, hot smell of cars and their innards - rubber, oil, grease and the sharp tang of metal, layered acrid in the air. A garage. No, not just any garage. Johzenji.

 

  
"Look, tell Misaki I'm done. I'm not - "

 

  
"There's no time." Yui hisses, tugging him forward to where Misaki and Kiyoko are crouching besides something -- or someone on the floor.

 

  
"What's going on -"

 

  
He stops as soon as he grasps the situation. It's Oikawa, only unconscious. Actually, it's more than that - his skin's gone an unhealthy gray, and he's shivering, breaths shallow and quick. Futakuchi's seen this before -- _dreamstruck_ , it was called, brought on by an overdose.

 

  
He knows what they're asking of him - why they rescued him in the first place, and spite unfurls, prickly and venomous in his chest.

 

  
"If you think I'm going to help him, you're fucking insane," Futakuchi snaps. "This is the guy that fucking arrested me, detained my people and destroyed Obscura. I'm not going to - "

 

  
"He will die if you don't." Misaki's voice is level. "He's already dying. This is the same kind of dream that killed Yamada Toshiro. There's nothing we can do for him now - but you can."

 

  
Eaten from the inside out. Futakuchi checks for his pulse - it's faint, and fading with each second. What Misaki says is true -- but that doesn't mean he has to like it. The dream's already calling to Futakuchi; he can feel the thrum of it through Oikawa's blood, and for a moment, he resists its lure.

 

  
"I better not fucking regret this."

 

  
"You won't." Misaki promises, and Futakuchi allows the dream to pull him under.

 

* * *

  
Futakuchi's out of practice. It's one thing to steal dreams; it's another altogether to step into someone else's.

 

  
The utter wrongness of it is jarring; it sets off a screaming klaxon in the back of his head and makes his skin crawl. All his instincts are screaming at him to run, to get away from whatever the hell this is, because it's not going to end well. Futakuchi closes his eyes, and when he next opens them, he's submerged in salt water, so cold it burns. This is no dream; it's a nightmare.

 

  
He kicks towards the surface, but it's as if his arms and legs have turned to lead; it's getting increasingly difficult to move, as if something's weighing him down. Futakuchi's lungs are starting to burn. The current pulls him under, dragging him inexorably down, and Futakuchi fights it, bobbing back to the surface again. He strains his eyes, scanning his surroundings. _There_.

 

  
Further off, in the storm-lashed, endless sea, there's a scrap of white bobbing in the wine-dark water.

 

  
It's got to be him. Futakuchi struggles onwards. Waves rear up over his head and crash down upon him, each one looming larger than the last. Dream physics - and by association, dream logic - don't apply to baku in general, but this dream isn't cooperating. He can't mould it into something else - it's just pure, destructive power, out to devour them whole. Before he reaches Oikawa, the inspector's started to sink; it's a panic-stricken dive to get to him, and when he does, Futakuchi barely has the energy to wrench them both out of it.

 

* * *

  
He sprawls onto the hard floor of the garage, breathing hard. Seawater drips off Futakuchi's clothes, seeping onto the floor and puddling around him. Someone - Kiyoko, maybe? - drapes a blanket around him. Besides him, Oikawa coughs, breath rattling in his throat, once, twice. His eyes fly open and he jerks upright, only to sag back onto the floor, retching. Oikawa spits out bile, mixed in with a bit of blood, and the remnants of the dream; Futakuchi scrambles out of the way narrowly, legs skidding a little as he rights himself.

 

  
Oikawa's eyes fix on him and widen.

 

  
"You," he gasps, "you were in the dream, too. You - "

 

  
"I saved your sorry ass, you mean." Futakuchi growls. "You're lucky I was here to break that enchantment, or you'd be like Yamada now. Nothing but meat and tubes."

 

  
Oikawa rubs at his neck. "I remember - I was checking out a few leads in Shinsekai, and then -- it was just --" he shakes his head. "a blur."

 

  
Yui holds up a syringe in a clear plastic bag. "You were drugged. Misaki had me bring you here, and Futakuchi broke you out of the dream."

 

  
"That's... not possible." Oikawa says, slowly. His voice is worn ragged, and he's still pale, though the color is slowly returning to his face. "Unless... but that can't be."

 

  
"Unless what?" There's a decanter of whiskey sitting on a crate, and Futakuchi lifts the entire thing to his mouth and knocks back a mouthful. It's _Hibiki_ , by the taste of it, strong, fruity, and complex and it burns his throat the whole way down, but it does the trick, washing the aftertaste of ocean out of his mouth.

 

  
"There aren't many _baku_ left. Those that remain are registered You aren't. You've got a pretty checkered record - small-time theft, dream trafficking, but not anything that points to you being a baku."

 

  
"Surprise." Futakuchi grins, spreading his arms. The blanket slips off his shoulder to crumple in a sodden pile by his feet. "If you're still skeptical, feel free to let me know; I can drop you right back where you left off."

 

Oikawa's eyebrows draw together. "Oh, god, no. Not necessary at all.  Look - " he laughs, then, and it's a sharp, bitter noise. "I have to admit something. I smelled a rat when I found the boxes and the chems at Obscura. It felt like too much of a coincidence to be believable. For one, it didn't make sense for you to lead me back to the speakeasy, not with so much incriminating evidence lying around. And another - you don't have a motive that I can pin down. No offence, but you're a small-time dealer - it doesn't make sense for you to kill off clients. Besides, Misaki trusts you. I might not agree with her all of the time, but that's enough for me."  
"Doesn't explain why you still went ahead and arrested me."

 

  
"I thought if I played along, I might be able to lull the killer into a sense of complacency. Turns out, that didn't work out so well." Oikawa smiles, crookedly. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. I made a gamble, and it turned out to be a mistake."

 

  
"Didn't mean you had to arrest my people too. Now Obscura's as good as done for, now that your lot knows about it." Festivalgate had been theirs; now it was picked over by the cops, laid bare like a crime scene. It makes Futakuchi's stomach roil to think about it.

 

  
"Leave _that_ to me, " Misaki cuts in. "For now, we've got a job to finish. I've had enough of this asshole messing around with _my_ city." She cracks her knuckles, each one  _popping_ with emphasis, and Futakuchi finds himself taking an involuntary step backwards. Misaki might only come up to his shoulder, but size is deceiving; Misaki can be fucking terrifying when pissed off. 

 

"So, uh. Thank you. Really." Oikawa extends a hand to Futakuchi. "I know we didn't start off well, and I'm sorry. I'd like to start over again?"

 

It would be easy to shun the olive branch he's just been offered. After all, Futakuchi's still pissed, and with good reason - but Misaki's right. They've got no time to waste. 

 

Even after sifting through the evidence and re-opening old case files, they've got nothing to go on. No clues that point towards the identity of the killer, which remains a mystery. 

 

"This guy's  _good_. It's like he's a ghost. There's nothing we can use," Oikawa complains, tossing a file aside. 

 

"No," Futakuchi starts to agree, and then he stops. "Hang on."  _The stolen dream from Yamada's residence - it would still be at Obscura, safely hidden where Tsukishima stashed all the highly illegal contraband_. It was a long shot in the dark, but it was better than nothing. 

 

"Yui, can you get us back to Obscura? Without anyone noticing?"

 

* * *

 

There's a slight hitch in the plan. Yui can't teleport them directly into Festivalgate - Futakuchi had made sure of that, when they'd first set up shop in the abandoned amusement park. The wards at the secret entrance have been blown wide open, but the hidden ones Futakuchi's woven straight into the crumbling foundations of Festivalgate still hold, an invisible iron wall that Yui can't break through.

 

The techs have cleared out, but there's still security to deal with. Not that's that a huge issue, considering who they've got with them. Futakuchi's all for the direct approach (meaning knock the bastards out and toss 'em in the nearest alley), as is Yui, but Oikawa objects.

 

  
"I'll talk them down," he insists, and before anyone can stop him, he steps outside the cloaking spell Misaki's put up.

 

  
Misaki makes a sharp _tch_ of disapproval, but it's too late. "Think they'll fall for it?" Her eyes never waver from the police officers stamping in the cold, just inside the yellow-and-black perimeter of crime scene tape cordoning off the entrance.

 

  
"I hope they don't." Yui's practically vibrating with nervous energy; she's keyed up for a fight. Futakuchi can practically smell the metallic ozone tang of magic radiating off her, and he shuffles discreetly away, leaving some space between them. There's a reason Yui's almost always at the forefront of any clash between Johzenji and anyone foolish enough to pick a turf war with them, and he's hardly anxious to get between her and her target.

 

  
The conversation's taking a good deal longer than expected. Yui paces restlessly in a tight circle, fingers flexing. On his left, Misaki might as well have been carved from stone; she holds herself perfectly still, barely breathing, her gaze fixed on some interminable spot in the distance. Kiyoko's humming to herself under her breath; Futakuchi can hear snatches of it now and then, and it sends shivers down his spine, prickling goosebumps in an icy wave over his skin.

 

  
Oikawa's relentless, but his subordinates aren't yielding. "Sorry, sir, but we've got orders. No one gets in or out - "

 

  
Kiyoko's humming cuts off abruptly, as if she's made a decision. She snaps her fingers. One of the guards buckles at the knees, toppling over onto the pavement. His colleague barely has time to draw his sidearm before Yui's upon him, twisting the gun out of his hand and clobbering him with it. There's a dull crunch, and the cop keels to the side, like a doll whose strings have been cut. The last one standing makes an attempt to run for it; Futakuchi whistles, and the man's legs give out from under him - he hits the ground, hard, and doesn't get up.

 

"I had this," Oikawa snaps, storming towards them. "They didn't have anything to do with this. You didn't have to take them out like that - "

 

  
Futakuchi shrugs. Sure, they hadn't exactly pulled their punches, but as far as he concerned, the guards deserved it. A little. Obscura was his stomping ground, and no one -- _no one_ \-- stopped him from accessing his own turf.

 

"No harm done," Kiyoko says, glasses glinting in the yellow glow of the sodium-flare street lights. "They'll be all right, and none the worse after this. They just won't remember what happened - "

 

  
Somewhere nearby, something roars, and hurtles towards them. Oikawa's hand lashes out, and he barks out a single sharp command. The _komainu_ skids to a halt bare feet from them, teeth snapping shut on empty air. It's the same one that foiled Futakuchi's escape at the station; he'd recognize that dark, bristling mane anywhere. Angry green eyes roll, the whites showing, and it growls, low and ferocious.

 

  
"No," Oikawa adds, hastily, as he sees Yui step forward. "This one won't be any trouble. He's with me. Iwa-chan, play nice!"

 

  
The _komainu_ bares its teeth, eyes flashing, but it stalks to Oikawa's side, the displeased rumble in its chest rising in volume as it passes Futakuchi.

 

 

"Seriously? This thing looks like it could rip a man in half, and you're calling him Iwa-chan?" The  _-chan_ suffix conjures up the image of a yelping, excitable, pint-sized dog, but the _komainu_  is anything but cute, not with his ears pinned flat to his skull, and his muzzle wrinkled in a permanent snarl. 

 

 

"... What? Iwaizumi's such a mouthful. And he's not a thing - you're hurting his feelings." Oikawa leans over to scritch Iwaizumi behinds the ears. Iwaizumi growls. It sounds like the scrape of rock over stone, deep and belligerent, not that it ruffles Oikawa in the slightest. 

 

   
"Awww, there's a good dog," Futakuchi smirks at the disgruntled  _komainu_ , disregarding the foul look he gets from Iwaizumi in response.

 

Futakuchi snags the police tape with a finger and pulls; it unravels, a fluttering, yellow-and-black ribbon in the wind, and crumples at his feet. He steps across the threshold, a king returning to his realm. 

 

   
"Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in."

 

* * *

 

Obscura's a mess - fingerprint powder scattered in a black, dusty film across almost every available surface; drawers rifled through and left open, boxes of dreams upended unceremoniously on the floor. It's a good thing Tsukishima isn't with them; there'd probably be murder otherwise. None of this matters at the moment, though; Futakuchi's here for just one thing. 

 

  
He clatters down into the sub-basement. Like the entrance to Festivalworld, it's hidden, layered over with glamor to make the trapdoor blend into the woodwork. It had originally been a partially flooded storage area, haunted by water wraiths, but then Makki had put the fear of himself into the _kappa_ , and so now it serves as a convenient hidey-hole for the more expensive - or dangerous - contraband, everything neatly labelled and color-coded according to Tsukishima's exacting specifications.

 

Futakuchi finds the dream sitting in a filing cabinet, half-buried in a sea of green apple-flavored Hi-Chew sweets. So that's where Makki's been hiding them; Futakuchi makes a note to come back later and clean his stash out -- it'd serve Makki right for holding out on him. But first -- business. He's got a gnawing hunch about who the killer might be, but so far it's just wild guesses and gut instinct; time to actually put his money where his mouth is, and test that theory out. Nothing ventured, nothing lost, and all that. 

 

As ideas go, Futakuchi's definitely had worse. Oikawa, however, disagrees. 

 

"Explain again, please. So you're going to,  _what_ \-- ingest the same kind of dream that almost killed me, and then miraculously expect to survive?" Oikawa's voice is sharp with disbelief. 

 

"I'm a  _baku_ , remember? Things work differently for us. Besides, I'm not going in blindly." 

 

"You might lose all," Kiyoko warns. She's holding the jar in her hands, studying the dream trapped within. It's gone blood-red in her hands, painting her face dark crimson in its glow. Futakuchi fights a shiver. Coming from a clairvoyant, that's hardly encouraging. 

 

"It's a risk I have to take. We don't have anything else to go on." He's speaking about it rationally enough, but his palms are sweating; Futakuchi discreetly wipes them on his jeans. 

 

"This is stupid," Oikawa argues. Iwaizumi rumbles his agreement, a hulking shape breathing down the back of Futakuchi's neck. Futakuchi suspects that Iwaizumi's doing that on purpose, but there's not much that he can do about it - once  _komainu_ decided to settle in a particular spot, nothing's going to dislodge them. 

 

"That's cute, you thinking that your opinion actually matters." Futakuchi rolls his eyes. "Misaki- _dono_ , if you'd care to share any insights?" 

 

Predictions were never certain, but sometimes it helped to know which way the dice were going to roll. Futakuchi just hoped it was going to be in his favor. 

 

"Beware the schemer." Misaki intones, voice ringing clear and cold. 

 

"That's.... not ominous at all," Futakuchi quips, but Misaki doesn't smile. 

 

 _Right. Plan A and B it is, then._  

 

The  _omamori_  is his good-luck charm, but it's also a talisman of another sort. Every  _baku_ had something they could be summoned by, if the bond forged between them and the caster was strong enough. In the case of Moniwa, it had been, and so the  _omamori_ had become Futakuchi's personal talisman. Parting with it is  _hell_ ; it quite literally means placing his freedom in the hands of another. But he can't see another way out of this, and so he gives it up. 

 

Not to Misaki, or Kiyoko, or even Yui; but to Oikawa. Watching Oikawa's fingers close about the  _omamori_ makes something twinge in his chest, and Futakuchi hides his unease by rattling off instructions. 

 

"Hold on to this. Got your phone? Good. Set the timer to three minutes. If I'm not back within that time frame, you've got to do what I did for you, only in reverse. I came to you in that dream - you need to call me back. The spell's easy: it's just  _baku-san, please eat my dream_. Say it three times, and I should be back." 

 

"What do you mean, 'should'? You don't  _need_ to do this." Oikawa begins to shove the talisman back at him, and Futakuchi steps away, grabbing the jar instead. 

 

If he waits any longer, he'll lose his nerve, let Oikawa talk him out of it. He can't let that happen. 

 

He twists the lid open, and the dream rushes forward, pushing to get out. 

 

"Bottoms up," Futakuchi grins, and swallows it whole. 

 

* * *

 

 

The sub-basement flickers out. Lights explode behind Futakuchi's eyelids, and he's falling, down, down, down, into the rabbit hole; only this isn't Wonderland, and he sure as hell isn't Alice.

 

One moment it's snowing, and the next, it's not; warm sunlight pooling over his skin, grass prickling against his palms, the scent of summer - sweet and green and growing - filling the air. Water laps at his feet, clear and cool, and Futakuchi reaches out with his hands, cupping it in his hands, bringing it to his mouth. 

 

"Bottoms up," someone whispers, and he starts -- it's his own voice, but it's muffled, as if from a distance. 

 

The grass rustles and murmurs in the breeze. It's a perfect summer's day in Miyagi, mellow and balmy, and Futakuchi's soaking up the sun without a care in the world -- 

 

 _You might lose all_ , the wind whispers, and the words are familiar, but he can't place them. The sense of urgency that had dogged him is slowly fading. He could stay here forever, if he liked -- 

 

"Beware the schemer," someone else says, the syllables crisp and clear, as if she's speaking right into his ear. When he turns, Misaki's standing behind him, eyes staring into the distance, fixed and unseeing. When he moves to touch her, she dissipates into mist, leaving only a shock of cold behind. He gasps - it's icy to the point of burning, and the pain wrenches his mind hard to port. 

 

 _How did you get here? If you can't remember, then --_  "It's a dream," he says, and the moment the words leave his mouth, the idyllic countryside shatters. 

 

No more sunlight. No more rolling green fields. Gone is the warmth; raw magic howls around him, the facade of the dream ripped to shreds, and  for the first time, Futakuchi sees the spells as they are -- sticky black webs, dripping with malice and clinging to him. He peels them off his skin, and where they've touched him, his skin is covered in welts. 

 

 _It's just a dream_ , Futakuchi thinks, and he presses his advantage. The magic feels -- familiar, like an echo of his own, only that much darker; he can feel the other  _baku's_ hatred seeping through, and Futakuchi taps into it, unraveling the enchantment and laying it bare.  _He's_ in control now, not the dream, and it's got no choice but to obey him. 

 

 _Tell me what you know_ , Futakuchi orders, and the dream shows him, the only way it can - it reaches into his memories, and spits a match back at it. 

  
_"And here I was hoping for some civilized conversation." Burly sighs, and scoops up the evidence photos. "Fine. I hope you enjoy your stay here, because if the evidence is anything to go by, you'll be put away for a good long while."_

 

 _And the bastard had the fucking gall to arrest him --_ that's as far as Futakuchi gets, before pain explodes, bright and hot, spreading across his face, derailing his train of thought and tearing what remains of the dream to pieces. 

 

* * *

 

Futakuchi blinks awake to the sight of Oikawa leaning over him, surveying his face with clinical interest. "Sorry, but not sorry. I mean, I waited three minutes, and then I tried the thing, but you didn't wake up, so." He gestures, vaguely. "I had to hit you a couple of times. Also, you started bleeding from the nose and but that was  _definitely_ not because of me -- Yui can testify."

 

Futakuchi sits up and coughs. Blood trickles down his chin, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. He feels like he's been wrung inside out, and hung out to dry. 

 

"How long was I out?" 

 

"Six minutes," Yui says, tersely, and without warning, she leans forward and pulls him into a fierce hug, before thumping his back with a heavy fist. "Never. Ever. Do. Anything. Like. That. Again."

 

Futakuchi wheezes, and hopes that Yui hasn't ruptured anything important, though judging from the pain, his kidneys might be compromised. 

 

"Find anything?" Misaki hands him a glass of water, and Futakuchi drains it greedily; he hadn't realized just how parched his throat had become. 

 

"It's him. The burly guy, down at the station, with the bald patch? He's a  _baku_. A really pissed off one. Looks like you lot  _really_ need to update your records." 

 

"Kanehira? No fucking way the captain would do that." 

 

"No." Futakuchi looks Oikawa dead in the eye. "You're not one of us, so you don't know. I would've done the same, once upon a time. I had a friend, the best anyone could ever ask for. His name was Moniwa Kaname, and he sheltered me when no one else would. He took the fall for me, because he was  _that_ kind of a guy, who would throw himself right into hell for his friends, and now? Now I don't know if he's dead or imprisoned, and I have the fucking anti- _baku_ legislation  _and_ the lobby groups, those fear-mongers and fools, to thank for that." 

 

"One minute." Oikawa thumbs through his notebook, and when he looks up, his eyes are grim. "It does check out. Those figures - they're pretty prominent for being anti- _baku_. So - you're certain, then." 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The end, when it does roll around, is bloody. Futakuchi's not surprised. He's  _known_ , ever since eating that dream, that it wouldn't be pleasant. Revenge rarely ever is. 

 

When push had come to shove, the captain had opted to kill himself, rather than be taken in. His eyes stare blankly up at the ceiling; Futakuchi crouches, and very gently, closes them, pressing them shut. A last courtesy, from one  _baku_ to another. There are fewer and fewer of them, and the grief that he'd thought he'd long buried flares anew to life, a raw ache that refuses to be soothed. 

 

"What was it all for?" 

 

Kanehira had lost as much as he had -- perhaps even more. 

 

_The captain looks up from his desk. He doesn't even seem surprised that they've all piled into his office, armed to the teeth -- or, in Yui's case, literally buzzing with angry magic._

 

_"So you've figured it out," he smiles, but it's curiously blank, "and here I was, thinking that I was in the clear. Well done. I reckon you'll get that promotion after all, Inspector."_

_Oikawa's gun is leveled at Kanehira. The barrel doesn't waver. "Stand down," he says, and there's nothing but pity in his eyes. Yui edges forward, but Futakuchi shakes his head, pulls her back. This isn't their fight._

 

_Kanehira laughs. "It's just as well, to be perfectly honest. I've done what I set out to do. Ruin them, the same way they ruined my family."_

 

_And then, faster than any of them could move, he'd turned his own gun on himself._

 

"You fool," Futakuchi whispers, even though the dead  _baku_ can't hear him. "I'm sorry, for whatever it's worth." 

 

* * *

 

Things go back to normal. More or less, anyway. As promised, Misaki works her own particular brand of magic on the bureaucracy, meaning that in less than twenty-four hours, Obscura falls off the official radar, and the records of their arrests are wiped clean. Terushima and Izaka turn up the day after, looking a tad sullen, and between the five of them they get Obscura shipshape again, with a minimum of breakage. Futakuchi, for his part, orders them around, because (a) he's the boss, and (b) he's pulled more than his own weight for the past day or so, no matter what Konoha insists. 

 

Futakuchi's thumbing through Makki's copy of  _Betsuma_ when the buzzer sounds, indicating that they've got a client. He hits the intercom without looking up from his  _manga_. "We're closed," he snaps, without preamble. "No exceptions." 

 

"It's me," Oikawa drawls, sounding tinny through the static, and Futakuchi frowns. There's no reason for the inspector to hang around -- the job's done, after all, and they're not exactly friends. Still, he figures, it can't hurt to be polite. Futakuchi buzzes him in -- but only after what he judges is a suitably long pause. Just enough to keep Oikawa on tenterhooks. Futakuchi has a very specific (and unorthodox) definition of polite, after all. 

 

"That.... took a while," Oikawa eyes him suspiciously. He's pink-cheeked from the cold, which Futakuchi feels only mildly bad for making him wait in. 

 

"Technical difficulties," Futakuchi snarks back over his copy of  _Betsuma_. 

 

" _Right_." Oikawa's raised eyebrow says that he doesn't believe Futakuchi one bit, but he doesn't press the issue. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and places the  _omamori_ on the table. "I realized I forgot to return this to you; I'm sorry." 

 

"Thanks." Futakuchi picks it up, thumbing over the brocade. "I thought I'd lost it, what with all the...." he hesitates, remembering Kanehira's death - how could he  _not_? "chaos," Futakuchi finishes. 

 

"I'm glad you didn't," Oikawa teases, tucking his hands back into his pockets. "Sorry I couldn't drop by earlier - had a bunch of reports to write." 

 

"So, what'll you do next?" 

 

"I'll probably head back in a few days. Thought I'd look for leads on Moniwa." Oikawa's tone has sobered, and his offer catches Futakuchi by surprise. 

 

 "You don't have to." Futakuchi clears his throat, embarrassed. He hasn't told anyone about Moniwa for a long while -- it just wasn't the kind of thing you talked about, period - especially if you were a  _baku_. 

 

"I'd like to. I guess I didn't exactly realize how fucked up the system was until Kanehira." 

 

"I'd appreciate that. Honestly." Oikawa's got far more access to information than Futakuchi has, and it's likely he'll make more headway in the matter than Futakuchi has. 

 

"And I have a favor to ask. On an unrelated issue." 

 

The change of subject is a welcome one, and Futakuchi seizes onto it. "Oh, this ought to be good," he cackles, "Tell you what - I'll consider, but only if you ask _nicely_." 

 

Oikawa shoots him a mock glare, but complies, anyway, "I've got some time to kill before heading back. Want to show take pity on a poor tourist and show him around?"

 

"Sure, why not? I know just the place to start." Futakuchi's grin widens; there's a particular shop in Dōtonbori that he has in mind. It's a tourist trap, which is _exactly_ why he's going to drag Oikawa to it "All the  _takoyaki_ can you eat, all the souvenirs you can buy... and the perfect soundtrack." 

 

"Really?" Oikawa sounds dubious. 

 

"Really. It's an experience not to be missed. Practically a rite of passage." That's a lie, but Oikawa doesn't have to know that. 

 

"Now that sounds a little worrying." 

 

"Scared?" Futakuchi tosses him a challenging smirk and grabs his jacket. "Too late. C'mon. We're going. Oh, and," here he breaks into a sprint, barging out of Obscura pell-mell, "last one to Dōtonboribashi picks up the tab!"

 

"OI!" 

 

What can Futakuchi say; he's a cheat. Old habits die hard. He grins, and ducks down an alleyway, with Oikawa in hot pursuit. _Well,_ he thinks,  _This is going to be fun_. 

**Author's Note:**

> i. If you're curious, [ this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIgbQkfM-ws/) is the takoyaki song that Futakuchi plans to inflict upon Oikawa at the end of the fic, because why not? It's a regular soundtrack in most of the shops around Dōtonbori, and it's what I think Futakuchi would call An Experience. 
> 
> ii. [ Festivalgate](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Festivalgate/) in [ Shinsekai](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shinsekai/) no longer exists - it was demolished in 2012, but I kept it in the fic because I rather liked the idea of a dream speakeasy operating out of an abandoned amusement park. 
> 
> iii. I based the ouroboros seal on this ukiyo-e print, [ Ryu sho ten](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ogata_Gekko_-_Ryu_sho_ten_edit.jpg), a favorite of mine (and also because it kind of looks like Haku's dragon form in Spirited Away, because I'm a nerd like that). 
> 
> iv. I should also confess that I've played fast and loose with crime investigation/ forensic procedures in the interest of time and creative liberties (this being a magical realism AU) – so I apologize for the factual inconsistencies!
> 
> v. I hope you've enjoyed reading! <3 also - thank you [ nautilics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilics/) for your prompts; I had a lot of fun writing this!


End file.
